


Dog Days of Winter

by fangirlSevera



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dogs, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-02-28 02:46:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2716037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlSevera/pseuds/fangirlSevera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's been taking Lucky to the same dog park for quite some time. The appearance of a well-dressed man in a full suit among the usual gray-faced morning crowd makes Clint suspicious.</p><p>But when Lucky  knocks the Suit over while playing with the guy's bulldog, Clint finds himself developing an unexpected and unlikely friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dog Days of Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [varjohaltija](https://archiveofourown.org/users/varjohaltija/gifts).



> [Varjohaltija](http://archiveofourown.org/users/varjohaltija/pseuds/varjohaltija)'s prompt/request was "Dog owners meeting while taking their pets out."
> 
> This is my first foray into writing Clint/Coulson from the comics, instead of the MCU. It takes mostly from the Fraction Hawkeye comics, and is not Secret Avengers compliant. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Clint's left arm is curled up under his chest. His right arm's dangling off the sofa. He blinks his eyes open and groans at the still-dark sky outside his windows. With a deeper groan he manages to sit up. Both arms flop uselessly at his side. There's much swearing as circulation rushes painfully back to his limbs. He pounds his fist against the sofa seat in futile hope it'll quicken the process of returning feeling.

One of life's little problems solved, Clint registers the light scratching and soft whining that had woken him up in the first place. "Lucky, c'mon it's like the middle of the night," he mumbles, rubbing his face with his hands.

Lucky makes a noise of disagreement. Clint looks at the microwave clock. Of course. It's the time of year when six in the morning looks like middle of the night. "Yeah, yeah." Clint gets to his feet and stretches, not appreciating the way certain joints pop as he does so.

He throws on a pair of old sweat pants, his favorite purple hoodie, and grabs a leash. "Come on, if you're coming," he says as he opens the door. Lucky bounds out.

The park is gray. Gray from the dim, barely-there sunlight. Gray from cold mist. Gray from frost clinging to bare trees. Gray from people who look like Clint feels. There's one or two who are in bright jogging clothes as they run with their dogs, but mostly everyone is at a pre-coffee pace, hands shoved in pockets, faces ducked against the drizzle and wind.

Something, or rather _someone_ catches Clint's eye. He's as gray as everyone else: gray suit, gray tie, but the fact he's in a full suit, the only deference to the weather a pair of black gloves, makes him stand out.

It's been said that dogs and their owners tend look alike (or at least eventually gets that way). Kate, on more than one occasion, has commented that with his light fur, scars, and scruffy appearance: Lucky was a perfect match for Clint. But not suit-guy and his dog. The English bulldog is stocky, wrinkly and jowly. His owner is all clean lines, straight-backed, and his face unremarkably handsome.

He's making Clint feel uneasy. His life and profession makes paranoia second nature to Clint, and having a noticeably new, incongruous visitor to Clint and Lucky's favorite park is making his, to borrow a phrase, spidey-sense tingle. Clint keeps one eye on Lucky as he does his doggy business, and the other on the Suit (definitely with a capital, federal S, because what lawyer or banker would be dressed like _that_ this early in the morning and in this neighborhood?), but the Suit doesn't even glance his way. He just watches his bulldog trample through the wet, brown leaves on the ground with a small smile on his face. Occasionally, he looks at his watch. After a while the man calls out "Captain!" and the bulldog runs back to him. Before muddy paws can reach that immaculate suit, the dog is commanded to "sit" and does so immediately, making no fuss as his collar is reattached.

Clint waits until dog and owner cross the street before giving Lucky his full attention again. "Why can't you behave like that?"

Lucky's response is to flop on the ground and wiggle around until his entire body is wet with leaves sticking to him.

With a day full of tenants, malfunctioning kitchen appliances, and super friends overqualified to fix them, Clint lets himself forget about suspicious Suits and their obedient pets.

Suit isn't at the park the following morning, which Clint can't decide is more or less suspicious. When he's not there the following day or the next, Clint tells himself maybe the guy normally visits the park at different times of the day, and the other morning was an aberration. After a week, Clint even decides to stop expecting him.

\---

Of course it's not long after Clint makes his decision, the Suit reappears. It's actually the brown and white bulldog Lucky is sniffing around Clint recognizes first. He slides his eyes around the park, and there he is: leash in one hand, phone in the other, and not caring that his dog is currently making friends with a strange mutt. Suit's blue today. He's wearing navy trousers and matching jacket, a light blue shirt, and blue striped tie. Again, far too neat and pressed for the time of morning.

Because Clint is spending all his attention on covertly eye-balling the mysterious man, he doesn't see, until it's too late, that Lucky and Captain have started a playful chase and are heading straight for the Suit! Captain makes a hairpin turn and veers away from his master. Lucky, not as coordinated, barrels right into him.

The Suit doesn't exclaim. Only grunts, drops what's in his hands and probably would have caught himself in an impressive back-bend, but Lucky turns back and knocks his legs out from under him. He lands on his back, right into the damp grass.

Clint runs over, alternating between apologies (to the guy) and reprimands (to Lucky). "Shit, sorry, sorry about my dog," he says, offering the Suit a hand. "He can be clumsy."

The Suit takes the offered help and lets Clint assist him to his feet. "Thank you, Mr. Barton," he says mildly, as he futilely brushes himself off.

"You know who I am?"

He gives Clint a slight smile. "I imagine lots of people do, but are too polite to mention it." He crouches down to pick up his leash and phone.

"Yeah, New Yorkers are all about polite," Clint snorts.

"You just helped me up," he points out. "And I'll even politely introduce myself, since I currently have you at an advantage. Phil Coulson." He extends his hand after wiping it off his already dirtied pants.

Clint takes it. "Uhm, Clint B- But you know."

Phil's smile would look like practiced affability, if not for its obvious sincerity. "I do. And I must confess, I always imagined that our paths would cross, but not like this."

Clint raises an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah?"

"I happen to work for S.H.I.E.L.D."

Clint raises the other one. "You just _happen_ to?"

"You don't believe our preference and proximity to the same dog park is coincidental?"

"Nothing involving SHIELD is a coincidence."

Coulson nods once like he's agreeing. "How about accidental?"

That makes Clint laugh. "Yeah, _accident_ is at least in line with my life."

Coulson's smile fades as he looks down at himself and at Captain who has come to heel at his feet. "I'm afraid I better go change. If I show up to work like this, Marcus will never let me live it down. Come on." Captain gets to his feet and stands still for Coulson's leash. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Barton," Coulson says over his shoulder as he walks away.

"It's Clint!" He calls after him. He frowns down at Lucky who somehow managed to get covered in leaves again. "I don't know why I said that."

\---

Clint is later than usual getting Lucky out to the park. Clint's been taking it slow this morning with his left ankle wrapped-up, and a series of new white bandages covering his arms and face. Not to mention the bruising on his back and chest. He's sitting carefully on a bench.

"Doombots?" A worried voice asks next to him.

Clint doesn't start, but he hadn't seen Phil enter the park nor sit next to him.

"Yeah. You in one of the SUVs running civilian evac?"

Phil shakes his head. "I wasn't around for it." Which was spy speak for anything from "out of town" to "out of country." Hell, "off planet" wasn't exactly off the table either. "I read the reports, though."

"Just like reading the old propaganda comic books, huh?"

Phil's mouth became a thin line. "How do you mean?"

Clint grinned. "You're an idealistic, all-American soldier boy. I looked you up, Agent Coulson."

"You mean you had Stark or the Widow hack SHIELD's personnel database."

"And you have a dog named 'Captain.' Been in this business long enough to spot a fanboy. I bet you're even wearing Cap shield boxers right now."

Phil snorts humorlessly. "Hardly. Boxers ruin the cut of a suit," he deadpanned.

Clint bursts out laughing, already sore muscles and ribs being further abused. "Ow. Shit." He hisses. "You can't do that." He starts to cough, but he's still smiling.

As if sensing his discomfort, Lucky trots over and puts his head in Clint's lap. Coulson is frowning at him in concern, which what the fuck? Who is he to him for Coulson to be _worried_ about Clint?

Clint waves a dismissive hand. "I'm okay. Just haven't met a SHIELD agent with a decent sense of humor. Took me by surprise."

Coulson's small smile returns. "Good. The element of surprise is, after all, what we at SHIELD strive for. You would fit in quite well, actually."

Clint raises his brows. "I'd laugh, but that didn't go well for me last time. But I think you'll find I don't meet most SHIELD recruitment requirements."

Coulson shrugs. "Maybe I've already found all I need."

Clint pets Lucky and shakes his head. "Newscasts, government files, and after action reports are never the full story. Bet ya' you'd change your mind if you really got to know me."

Coulson's smile widens, just a fraction. He looks Clint confidently in the eye and says, "I'll take that bet." With that, Coulson stands and whistles Captain to him. He turns to Clint one more time to wave good-bye.

Clint says nothing, quips leaving him in a rush at Coulson's quiet conviction.

Clint doesn’t see Agent Coulson (or rather, Phil, as he the man eventually insists), every day or even every week. He finds conversation with Phil easy. His humor is wry and comic books aside, he's kind of dorky. He also falls into a rare category: Someone who understands Clint's life without being another "costumed hero" himself. He can tell Phil about outrageous goings-on with the Avengers, and complain about leaky showerheads. Phil always listens with interest, no matter the subject.

Phil responds to a lot of Clint's questions with "That's classified," which is a little annoying. Clint does learn that Captain is actually a girl dog, about Phil's longing for Chicago-style pizza, and that his BFF Marcus and the shiny, new Nick Fury he'd been hearing about are in fact the same person. When Clint tries to pry the full story about that whole situation, the C word is thrown around much more frequently.

Clint's also starting to realize that his initial assessment of Phil being "unremarkably" handsome wasn't at all generous, nor true. His eyes sparkle, and the lines at their edges deepen when he laughs. His smiles are sly and Clint catches his mind wandering to inappropriate places sometimes when he looks at them.

On the earlier, colder mornings, Phil brings two cups of coffee with him. Clint always tries to pay for his share, but Phil always refuses to let him. It's damn good coffee, and the extra heat is much appreciated.

After a while, Clint forgets he was ever convinced Phil's attention was just some sort of SHIELD plot.

Even their dogs are getting along. Lucky and Captain ignore all others to chase and nip at each other. Clint would be a little nervous about their interest in each other, but he's sure Phil's responsible enough to make sure his pets get the Bob Barker treatment.

\---

One day Clint opens his apartment door and is surprised to find Phil on the other side. Even more surprising is how Phil's not looking quite himself. "Huh." Jeans. He's in jeans and a sweater. A really soft-looking sweater. It'd been snowing. Droplets cling to Phil's hair and shoulders. His cheeks and nose are appealingly pink.

"Are you okay?" Phil asks, a little breathless.

Clint mentally shakes himself. "Uh, yeah, just a little shocked. You. Here. Jeans."

"I haven't seen you at the park in a couple weeks. And I may have abused SHIELD resources to check to see if you were on long term Avengers business, or if you had been injured. I also looked up your address, sorry."

"I'm okay. I haven't been to the park because I currently don't have a dog."

Phil's eyes widen. "Oh! I'm so sorry. Of course something could have happened to- I'm so sorry."

"No! No, shit," Clint squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. "Talking. Conversation. Bad at right now. Maybe you should just come in."

Phil looks unsure for a moment, but then he straightens his shoulders and takes a step into Clint's home.

"Lucky's fine. Or at least I assume. A friend needed him, and I let her take him for a bit."

Phil's body language relaxes, and the sympathy in his eyes brighten into understanding. "Ah, Ms. Bishop. Of course. They will take good care of each other."

"Better than I would," Clint mutters to himself.

There's a line bisecting Phil's brow when Clint glances up at him, his lips in that unhappy straight line. "You've got anything to drink?" He asks instead of what he apparently wanted to say.

"Just some gross cheap beer my brother left."

"I'll take whatever you have. I've been dealing with one Wade Wilson lately."

Clint winces. "He's a piece of work." He throws Phil a can from the fridge, which Phil easily catches.

"A Jackson Pollock," he says, popping the tab.

Phil wrinkles his nose when he pulls the can away from his face. Clint laughs at it. Phil narrows his eyes, taking Clint's laughter as a dare, and takes a pointed, long drink. It makes Clint laugh harder. A disconcerting feeling suddenly settles over him. Agent Phil Coulson of SHIELD, in casual clothes is chugging cheap beer in the middle of his apartment. It should be weird. But somehow it isn't. But it is? Because yeah maybe they're friends. But more like mutual acquaintances of their dogs. Or something.

But Phil is comfortable and warm. And already making Clint's apartment less bleak, and making Clint forget the loneliness and self-pity he had been wallowing in only minutes prior.

"I've had worse," Phil declares, setting the can down, face still screwed-up in disgust. "At least it's cold." He fidgets with a plastic container he's had since he came in, but Clint kept his curiosity about to himself. "I made you these, in case you needed..." He huffs out a frustrated breath. "I thought they might cheer you up, whatever what was going on with you."

"You _made_ me something?"

He pulls open the plastic lid halfway to show Clint the contents. "My mother called them her 'lucky' scones, which I realize now may be a little too on the nose at this moment in time." He makes the not-quite frowny face again.

Clint is still reeling that Phil had brought him homemade baked goods. So, he deflects. "You're just buttering me up so I can help you meet Steve."

"I've already had the honor of meeting Captain Rogers. More than once. And I wouldn't ever use you like that."

"Hey! No, I was joking," Clint says, seeing the hurt Phil's showing. "Just. Argh, mouth sometimes says dickish things I don't mean. We've been having talks."

Phil smirks. "Was that a pun?"

"Shut up and give me the food."

So, Phil makes awesome scones, and his mother clearly had a thing for pina coladas. They spend the afternoon together, chatting on Clint's ratty couch just as they would have had they been back at the park. Better than that though, since it's drier and warmer inside, and they don't have dogs to pay attention to. Plus, there's a fresh pot of coffee (that Clint doesn't drink directly out of because he can be a good host). They're sitting close. Clint has his legs tucked up under him so he's at a better angle to face Phil. As their chuckling dies down, there's a lull in the conversation and an undeniable tension fills that space.

Phil's leans in and... Yeah, Phil's kissing Clint. And Clint's kissing back. But only for a moment. Clint pulls back, shaking his head and closing his eyes. "You don't want to do that."

Phil's eyes widen. "Of course. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. Not without asking."

Clint shakes his head harder. "No, I mean you don't want..." Ugh, words. He squeezes his eyes harder, trying to find them. "A relationship with me is a bad idea. Unless you just want sex, then that's a bad idea, too." He opens his eyes and manages to look Phil in his. "Getting involved with me in any way is a bad idea. Just ask-"

Phil's kissing him again. Thank _God,_ because it stops Clint's embarrassing rambling. Also, it's really nice. Phil's kisses are more awesome than his scones. Which Phil's mouth still tastes a bit like.

Phil breaks away first this time. "You have a bad track record with relationships. So what? If everyone never had a failed relationship there would be a lot less single people in the world." Clint opens his mouth, but Phil soldiers on. "And if you're concerned about the way being associated with you puts people in harms way." Phil chuckles. "I've been doing pretty okay living in harms way most of my life."

Clint has no counter argument. "I hate logic," he grumps.

"What about feelings? That's more important right now. You've only talked about why I shouldn't want this, not that you don't."

Feelings are worse than logic. But he owes it to Phil to be as candid as he has been. "I like you. A lot. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about stuff when I'd let myself." Phil is starting to look optimistic, and Clint hates himself for having to continue. "But things between us would inevitably crash and burn and you'll end up hating me, and I can't risk that."

Phil licks his lips, probably an unconscious tick as he takes it all in, but Clint finds it unfairly provocative. Phil eases back, putting some distance between them. The air feels colder for it, and Clint is certain he's already succeeded in fucking everything up between them.

"Okay," Phil eventually says, sound like he actually means it. "I won't push."

Secretly, Clint wants him to push. His fingers twitch when Phil stands, wanting to pull him back down and tell him to stay. But that would be pathetic, and needy, and contradictory. "I hope Ms. Bishop and Lucky return whole and hale to you soon. Captain has been finding me to be insufficient company lately."

"Yeah, hopefully."

"Take care of yourself, Clint."

Clint doesn't watch him leave.

\---

Clint doesn't see Phil for quite some time. The agent doesn't show up at his door unexpectedly. Clint never asked him for a phone number. The only way he had regular contact with him is still unavailable, and Clint doesn't want to show up at the park by himself, and look like some kind of dog-obsessed creeper.

At least he still has track-suits, evil geniuses, and the ensuing physical aches to distract him from the emotional ones. And if his heart flutters when the Avengers get an assist request from Director Hill, his teammates don't need to know (nor do they need the know how his heart sinks when none of the agents they work with is the one Clint desperately wants to see).

Clint gives in and goes for a walk. He could always just pass by the park, dog or no dog. So he does. And he spots a familiar bulldog digging into the slush that covers the grass. Clint swallows, casting his eyes about for Phil, but doesn't see him. What he does see is someone who looks just as incongruous in the park as Phil always had been. He's tall, bald, and wearing an eye patch over a mess of scars. Everyone is giving him a wide berth.

Clint has his suspicions and crosses the street. The minute he steps foot in the park Captain bounds over, her dour face split into a doggy smile with her tongue lolling out. Clint is definitely not tearing up because his dog's girlfriend remembers him. Nope.

He crouches and scratches at her ears. "Hey, girl."

Someone whistles, and Captain barks, abandoning Clint for the tall stranger. Clint shoves his hands in pockets and follows.

"Hello, Marcus," he greets cheerily.

"It's Agent Fury to you, Mr. Barton," he says, his one eye narrowing (and seriously are eye patches genetic or something?).

"What brings you out on this fine day?" Clint is totally cool, and does not immediately start asking after Phil like a pining teen.

"Making sure Captain will be fine before I go to Argentina."

"What's in Argentina?"

Clint's expecting no answer, or the patented SHIELD "that's classified." He definitely does not expect, "Cheese."

Clint screws his face up. "Well, everyone's got their hobbies."

Fury II rolls his eye. "And he's been telling me you're smarter than you look. Phil's been on assignment. He would have told you, but he doesn't have your phone number. Or rather he does but suddenly he's gone all uptight about misuse of SHIELD resources."

"His assignment has something to do with black market cheese?"

Fury assesses him for a moment, and then he grins and laughs. It's a nice, friendly laugh, but Clint is still offended by it. "He never told you his nickname from the Rangers?" He shakes his head. "Like he doesn't have more embarrassing things to keep from the cute boys he likes."

Clint pouts. "I'm not cute." Fury laughs at him again. Clint is starting to get annoyed. "And are you saying something's gone wrong in Argentina? Should you really be out here making fun of me if your best friend is in trouble?"

Fury's expression sobers. "Hill's finalizing the rescue plan."

"Rescue!?" Clint shouts. Heads (human and canine) turn to him. He clears his throat, gets into Fury's space, and lowers his voice to a harsh whisper. "Phil's been captured-"

"By AIM."

"By _AIM_ and no one's-" _Told me_. Of course not. Clint's not SHIELD. He's not Phil's boyfriend. Why would they tell him anything?

Fury stares at him coolly. "You wanna come along?"

"Fuck you! Of course I do."

Fury takes Captain back to wherever Phil lives. Clint runs home, grabs his gear, and is ready on the roof of his building when a quinjet comes in to hover above it. A line is lowered. Clint grabs on and is pulled aboard. Inside are half a dozen SHIELD agents in their blue and white field suits, except for Fury, who has his own special uniform.

"Isn't that Steve's?" Clint asks, taking in the white stars and stripes on Fury's chest.

Fury crosses his arms. "He gave it to me."

"Phil must be jealous."

Fury snorts. "He got over it. And gets it in my will anyway. Now, do you want to be read into this, or would you rather discuss fashion?"

There's small AIM facility tucked away in the marshes of the Argentine Mesopotamia. So small that no way could the usual world-dominating machinations be coming from somewhere so woefully under-resourced.

"But even the smallest cog will eventually have its use to run the larger machine. And when one of the local recruits, a Dr. Marta Suarez, found out how her research was going to be used..."

"Well, if you're going to work for AIM."

"That wasn't exactly the name they put on their wanted ads."

Clint scrolls through the file on the tablet Fury handed him. "So, Phil's sent in to make contact with this Dr. Suarez and hasn't been heard from since."

"He was doing recon and sending reports for almost a week. At his last check-in, he expressed concern about Dr. Suarez having missed the meet they'd scheduled. He thought AIM might have found out she was an informant."

"You think she gave him up?"

" _I_ think the damn fool thought he could go in and rescue her without back-up. But we'll have to wait and ask him."

The swampy ground is too unstable for the quinjet to land close to the AIM facility. The region is in the middle of summer. A hot summer, thick with humidity. There's an ever-increasing rumble of thunder as Clint and Fury's team slosh their way through the marshes.

The facility looks like a floating island in the middle of water. It is indeed much smaller than any AIM base Clint has had the pleasure to shoot through.

"All right, Bhardwaj," Fury says. "It's you."

A painfully young agent squares her shoulders. She's the techy of the team, going in first to disable any and all primary security equipment. They wait with baited breath for her signal. One SHIELD guy wipes at the sweat drenching his forehead. Clint smacks the back of his own neck, hoping that nothing deadly has just bit him. SHIELD made sure he got all his shots before heading out, but you never know. Maybe it was some kind of new genetically engineered bug AIM released.

Their comms crackle. "I'm in," Bhardwaj says, hushed. "You can kick in the front door, sir. No alarms. Lasers disengaged. Just the mooks now."

"Good work. Keep position, shoot anything that comes at you."

One of the other nameless (well, he has a name, Clint's just having trouble remembering them) agent grunts.

"Unless it's O'Neill. He's coming to you."

"Roger that, sir." And the comms go silent.

Fury turns to the whole team. "You know your jobs. Hawkeye and I are heading to the holding cells. O'Neill, grab Bhardwaj and download as much data as you can from their systems. You two," maybe Fury wasn't good with names either, "take prisoners if you can, but you don't have to. Destroy as much as you can. Once we've got what we came for, Hawkeye will finish the place off with one of his toys."

Clint frowns as he twirls an arrow between his fingers before nocking it. "Hey! Not toys!"

They go in. Fury does literally kick the front door in. There isn't the swarm of yellow-suited guards Clint's used to. It doesn't take too many well place bullets and arrows to clear their way. O'Neill and the others split up to do their things. Clint and Fury stay side-by-side until they make their way to the lower level.

"Is having a subterranean floor in marshlands viably stable?" Clint asks, eying the damp concrete walls.

"Gotta have a basement dungeon if you're going to have a secret evil base."

"So much for originality."

Fury goes left. Clint goes right. He creeps along the ill-lit halls. The floor and walls are cracked and leaking. Sinking this place is going to be too easy. There are cliché cell doors interspersed along the walls: metal with a barred, eye-level window. Clint carefully checks each one through the window, able to tell whether or not they're empty, even in the near-dark.

He finally comes to a cell that is occupied. There's a man's body lying face down on the floor, and Clint's breath hitches. He's ready to blast the lock open with one of his lesser explosive arrows, but finds the door already open.

Bow drawn, he takes a careful step into the cell. "Phil?" He stage whispers. He creeps closer to the body, and it becomes evident it very much is not Coulson. Clint blows out a relieved breath.

Blood is running down from a wound to the back of the guard's head. His weapon is missing. Nearby there's a broken chair and a length of rope. There's a torn and dirty suit jacket flung into a corner. The story is clear and Clint laughs. He turns on his comm. "I've found Phil's cell, but it looks like we got ourselves a self-rescuing princess."

"Mother fucker just can't stay put," Fury grumbles. "I've got Suarez. Branson, I'm coming your way, I want you to take her back to the 'jet immediately for medical attention."

"Copy that, sir. We're secure up here."

"You keep looking for your _princess,_ Hawkeye. I'll meet up when I can, if I don't run into him first." Fury signs off.

Clint's already out of the cell. He's starting to think that most threats have already been eliminated, especially if Phil's on the loose, too. He still keeps his steps quiet, eyes scanning, and an arrow at the ready.

There's a quiet sound around the next corner. Clint takes a breath, brings up his bow, pivots around the corner in a quick spin and comes arrow to gun barrel with "Phil!"

"Clint?" He sounds curious and exhausted.

Clint lowers the bow and watches Phil slump against the wall. He's lost his tie, and his shirt is partially open from the throat. Both shirt and pants are dirtied with actual dirt and, more worryingly, blood. His face is the same story. He's gritting his teeth.

"How bad?" Clint asks, putting away the arrow and slinging his bow over his shoulder.

"In order to slip my bindings, I may have dislocated my shoulder. But look," he grins, a little manically. "I got his laser gun!"

"That's great. But let's get out of here, huh?"

Phil shakes his head. "Have to find Marta."

"It's okay. She's okay. Fury got her."

"Marcus is here?"

"Bitch, I might be."

Let it be on record (read: in the official SHIELD reports), that Clint does not jump at the sudden sound of Fury's voice behind him.

Fury approaches Phil and looks him over. "Dislocated shoulder?"

Phil nods. Fury sighs. "All right, you know the drill. Give me the gun."

"But laser gun," Phil almost whines.

"We'll get the director to requisition you one. Gun."

Phil, with obvious reluctance, hands it over. Fury in turn hands it to Clint. Clint watches their exchange, feeling like a third wheel on the Close Friendship Express.

Phil's breathing quickens when Fury takes his wrist in one hand and raises the arm. His other hand goes to Phil's shoulder. "Deep breath, soldier."

Phil squares his jaw, takes that breath, and nods once. The unfortunately familiar, sickening sound of bone and flesh being ungently snapped back into place was quickly drowned out by Phil's loud scream of "FUCK!" With Clint not far behind him in the sentiment. Phil leans back against the wall, face white and sweaty, breath still coming harshly out between clenched teeth.

Fury pats him on the good arm and turns to Clint. "Take your princess and blow this joint."

"Princess?" Phil asks wearily, as Clint puts an arm around him.

They meet up with the rest of the team. The only prisoners taken were civilian personnel, who probably much like Dr. Suarez, weren't true AIM, just scientists in need of equipment and money.

"C4's in place, sir," O'Neill informs them. He has a cut on his cheek.

Fury nods. "Good work, take the prisoners back to the quinjet. Tell Harris to start preflight."

Once outside, everyone but Clint, Phil, and Fury keep marching forward. Once they're at a safe distance, Clint passes Phil to Fury so he can draw an explosive arrow. He aims through the kicked-in doors and strikes the block of C4 at the end of the main hall. It sets off a chain reaction, loud and hot. Clint turns to his comrades with a smug smile.

"Yeah, yeah, we know what you do," Fury says.

"I was impressed," Phil assures him.

"That's why you're my favorite." Clint's smile softens.

They manage to avoid the deluge of a storm by mere seconds. It's pouring unrelentingly just as they step up onto the quinjet's ramp. Inside, the small group of prisoners is huddled in one corner with an agent standing guard. Dr. Suarez is getting a cut bandaged by the team medic who had stayed behind on the 'jet along with the pilot. She spots Phil and immediately jumps up and runs to him, smiling, only to stop short once she actually gets a look at him.

"Estas bien?" She asks.

Phil tries for a reassuring smile, but it doesn't go well. "Bien, bien."

"Lo siento."

Phil shakes his head again. "No es tu culpa."

Suarez smiles weakly and sniffs, but backs away, saying "Gracias" to all the SHIELD agents on the way to her seat.

"Going to need you to look at this one, Lin," Fury says, directing Clint over to put Phil down next to the medic. "Shoulder, first."

Clint steps away, giving Lin space to work. He chews on his lip as he watches the way Phil flinches and whimpers like he's trying not to, as the medic works his shirt off. The sound of the 'jet engines, the scattered voices of the scientists and Fury checking in with his team all fade out for Clint as Phil is fully stripped of his under shirt.

He's been hiding proper Army Ranger muscles under his suits, and his left shoulder is swollen and red, but none of that is what makes Clint's breath catch and his eyes widen. Phil's chest and arms are covered with dots of puckered scars. The larger, rounder ones are bullet wounds. The scattered mess of smaller, less symmetrical ones are most likely from shrapnel. There's also one or two stab wounds, if Clint's not mistaken.

"Boy's had a lot of holes put him in," Fury says, appearing at Clint's side.

Clint swallows. "Like Swiss cheese." It takes him the smallest of moments, but when it hits, he groans and scrunches his face up at Fury. "Really!?"

Fury chuckles. Phil's getting an icepack secured to his shoulder, and he's rolling his eyes at him. He's also looking less wan. They must have given him something for the pain. "Making fun of my injuries is easier than acknowledging how often I've almost died."

Fury stops laughing. "Looks like I'm going to have to look into the _lack_ of Psych divisions data security."

He heads to the cockpit, leaving Clint standing awkwardly, incapable of looking away from Phil.

Phil smiles at him. "Thanks for coming," he says, like Clint's just arrived at his house warming party.

It's that exact moment Clint realizes he wants Phil in his life. Not just another SHIELD agent he crosses paths with, not his occasional dog park friend. He wants this ridiculous, awesome man back in his apartment, on his couch, kissing him. And then later more than kissing. Because Clint _wants._ And doesn't want those weeks of doubt, and loneliness ever again.

But Clint really can't say all that while surrounded by SHIELD agents, and Phil getting his face dabbed at with wet cotton balls.

\----

Debriefing with Director Hill isn't fun (he may be a little scared of her). Nor is the fact that Phil's been kidnapped to SHIELD medical and Clint doesn't get to see him before he's dropped back off at his building.

Clint opens his apartment and is instantly tackled by a large ball of golden fur. "Aw, dog." He doesn't care Lucky's getting slobber all over his gear, nor how with Lucky on top of him, his quiver is digging into his back.

"Where have you been?" Kate's leaning against a kitchen counter, her arms crossed.

"You don't get to ask me that," Clint says, climbing to his feet (not easy with the dog still jumping on him).

She shrugs, a kinda bratty shrug. "I tried calling to tell you we were on our way."

"I do in fact have _real_ Avengers stuff going on, and can't always answer my phone." He takes a good look at Kate. She's gotten a tan, but other than that, California doesn't look to have treated her all that well. "How was the west coast?" He asks, starting to take his gear off.

She does that shrug again. "I brought your dog back." Like that's all he's going to care about. Kate does bring her eyes ups from the floor then. "You seem well."

He starts taking his tac vest off. "I'm doing all right." He fiddles with the zip on his pants.

She scoffs. "I'm sure you are. And you stripping in the middle of the living room is my cue." She walks out.

He frowns after her. She'll talk only when she wants to. Then he's sure she'll _talk._

He peels himself out of his pants (stupid, humid South America). He leaves the clothes on the floor, and picks up his bow and quiver to store properly. Lucky is at his heels the whole time, snuffling. "If you were a human boy, you'd have so many angry texts from your girlfriend, you know that? Better not have been sniffing too many other dog butts in California. Women can _sense_ these things."

Lucky tilts his head and whines.

\---

Clint doesn't hear from Phil. Okay, so Phil is the one who said he wasn't going to push, and can't know that Clint has had a change of heart. There's also the problem that Clint still doesn't know Phil's phone number or address. He stares out his window, watching flurries drift around on the winter breeze, taking sips from the coffee pot. Behind him, Lucky is scratching at the door and barks.

Clint laughs. "That's why you're the brains of this outfit," Clint tells him, grabbing the leash.

Of course there is no guarantee Clint will be seeing Phil at the dog park. He may still be held up at SHIELD. He may be taking Captain out at a different time. Clint is well practiced in not getting his hopes up, but all his focus on "maybes" doesn't stop his heart from beating fast. Lucky's taking a determined pace, too.

Clint's breath puffs out in a cloud of disappointment in the chilly air. There's not many people in the park today, and none of them Phil. Clint releases Lucky's leash. He shuffles his paws against the cold concrete, but doesn't immediately run off to get wet and dirty like he normally does. "Go on, you can always make new friends. That terrier looks fun."

Lucky doesn't look convinced.

"Do whatever, then," Clint tells him, and drops onto a wooden bench. He lets his limbs sprawl and he tilts his head back. He blinks at the sky and the gentle snowflakes falling from it. He hears Lucky bark and run off. Well, good. At least someone gets over some things quickly.

A shadow falls over him. "I like your hat."

Clint gasps and sits up. He's staring at Phil. Phil who's watching him with those twinkling blue eyes and quietly pleased smile. Clint reaches up and touches his purple beanie with an H on the front. "I... Like your coat."

Phil chuckles. One sleeve of the black wool coat is empty. One side bulges oddly where his arm is bent in a sling. Clint stands, but Phil turns his head away. "They seem happy," he says, watching their dogs roll around in the snow.

"Reunited and it feels so good."

"Yes," Phil says. He's looking at Clint again.

Clint clears his throat. "I-" He clears it again. "Look, I won't use the word 'pining.'"

"But you just did."

"Shut up. I'm trying to talk feelings, and you know it's hard."

"Sorry."

"But I miss you. Missed you. Have been missing you. And when Fury told me you were in trouble, I started thinking about logic again. Don't..." Clint warned, holding up a finger when Phil opened his mouth to comment. "And logically, given the sort of things we do, it's more likely one of us is going to end up dead, or trapped in an alternate dimension, or drifting alone in space before I do something to cause us to break up. Ideally."

Phil's lips are pressed together, and his eyes had narrowed. "So, you're saying we're worth the risk."

Clint nods slowly. "Yeah, I guess that's what I'm saying. You just say it better."

"And if I kiss you now, you won't say I shouldn't?"

"Yes! I mean, no. Wait."

Trying to figure out the proper use of negatives flies away as Phil steps closer. His left hand is trapped between them, and he brings the other one up to hold onto to Clint's arm. Their hot breaths are mingling in a cloud between them. Clint licks his chapped lips, basking in the warmth Phil surrounds him in, wanting more, wanting it closer. Clint winds his arms around Phil's waist, and tilts his head. Clint moans, partially from the feel of Phil against him, pressed head to toe, and partly in berating himself for almost denying himself this.

Something bumps the back of Clint's knees. He pulls away from Phil, who's smiling. He's never seen Phil smile so wide. And Clint caused it. His knees are bumped again. They both look down. Lucky and Captain are sitting together, mouths split open in doggy grins, tails wagging (well, Lucky's is. Captain's stubby curl doesn't really _wag_ ).

"Why do you look so smug?" Clint scowls.

"Hey, girl!" Phil crouches down. "Told you they'd come back, didn't I?" He takes her wrinkly face in his one gloved hand and leans closer to rub his nose with hers.

It's the single most adorable thing Clint thinks he's ever seen. A bubble holding a certain little word floats up from Clint's heart and bursts in his brain. All the heat he had lost when Phil stepped away returns. He's not good with words though, and he's let so many spill out already, a bit like Pandora's Box. So, he'll keep this one safely tucked away, for a little while at least.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Captain the bulldog was inspired by [this gif set](http://badrowboats.tumblr.com/post/100531909194/clark-gregg-dog-awww-x).
> 
> And a big thank you to my ever faithful beta, [cruelest_month](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cruelest_month/pseuds/cruelest_month)!


End file.
